Unicorn
by Misty3
Summary: A tale of lost innocence, and a younger X-Man who's just returned from his first war... (Chapter 6 is new!!)
1. Unicorn I

Disclaimer and mild pre-story Note: I do not own the central character in this story. He belongs to Marvel, as does the main villain to be mentioned at a later date. The places and other characters mentioned herein are mine however, and are not to be used without my permission, although I'd probably die of shock if anyone asked. The song is "Faceless Man" by Creed. If you're one of those people who listen to music when they read, might I suggest 'Logan and Rogue' from the X-Men soundtrack, or the entire 'Gladiator' cd. This takes place sometime during the Hundred Years War (look it up, all kinds of bad stuff happened). If you want to archive it, simply let me know the addy and I'll be happy to comply (though, again, you'd have to resuscitate me for an answer). This is not an Elseworlds story, but something I think could have happened before "normal" continuity (I'll explain more at the end!). I stink at writing accents, so I hope you can tell this takes place in medieval England and not modern-day Kentucky. Hope you have as much fun reading it as I did writing it. Remember, feedback makes for happy writers, and happy writers lead to...all sorts of bizarre sequel-type things.  
  
And now I leave you to a tale of lost innocence, and a younger X-Man who's just returned from his first war...  
  
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Unicorn  
By Misty  
  
* I spent a day by the river   
It was quiet and the wind stood still   
I spent some time with nature   
To remind me of all that's real   
It's funny how silence speaks sometimes when you're alone   
And remember that you feel *  
  
"Da?"  
  
"Not now, Nathan." Peter was so intent on his work he didn't even glance at his son as he spoke. The fair would begin in only a matter of moments and he had no time to spare. Mind you, he was looking forward to taking a well-deserved day off from the fields, but his plow had broken- *again* - and he just *had* to get his work done today.  
  
"But da-"  
  
"I said not *now* Nathan! Go botha yer ma!" He cursed as the blade slipped and cut his finger slightly. Stubborn dirt. This makes the third time that the stupid thing had broken from the hard ground. It was a miracle anything would grow out of it, let alone the meager crops he *was* able to produce. The other farmers seemed to share his problem and he saw that they were tolling hard before the fair began as well.  
  
"But-"  
  
"Dammit Nathaniel! Do as I say boy!"  
  
"But there's a man comin' out've th' woods, da."  
  
"What?" Peter put down the plow and looked up to the boundaries of the field. Damned if the little bugger wasn't right. Peter could make out the blurred figure of a man lumbering through the undergrowth. From a distance he seemed to be covered in some brown thing from neck to toes. Peter squinted as the sun glinted off of something metallic on his back. A sword hilt perhaps? *Trouble, Peter me boy.*  
  
"Go an' get me ax from th' house boy, hurry." He may not own this land, but he did work it, and, by God, he'd never let some French idiot take it. A tiny voice in the back of his mind whispered *What if he's got th' plague?* His thoughts shied away from that question, vowing that the man would never get close enough for him to find out.  
  
The stranger stopped a good ten feet away from the farmer, keeping his hands in the open to not provoke attack as Peter sized him up, and vice versa. It was indeed a sword hilt poking up from his massive shoulder. The grip was bound in leather for better handling but the pummel was left bare of design and cover, radiating strength and power even sheathed. The brown covering the man wore appeared to be armor of some sort, although Peter had no idea as to what possible good it could be in a battle. Hard leather, connected at the sides and shoulders with pointed straps, wrapped itself around his chest, forearms, shins, back -- even his fingers were covered. His face was hard and calm, ragged features and stormy eyes giving away a past fraught with hardships.   
  
"You don't need that." It was only when the stranger's rough voice broke the tense silence between them did Peter realize that it was the first noise he'd heard the man make during his approach. Eerily, he was completely silent as he moved, no clanging and clacking like every other soldier he'd seen.  
  
Holding his ax a little higher, he said, "Where you from? I don't know that accent." *Well, at least he's not French.*  
  
"Around. You don't need that." He nodded his head at the improvised weapon.  
  
"I'll be th' judge o' *that*. Now git off this land b'fore I 'ave ta use this!"  
  
Suddenly, the stranger was in front of him, holding Peter's ax. Peter never even saw him move, or felt the ax leave his hands. "I *said* you don't need this," he growled, a dangerous glint in his eyes. Ice worked its way down Peter's spine as he stared into the abyss of his own death.   
  
He grabbed Nathan by the shoulder and pushed the boy behind him, backing both of them towards their small cottage. He doubted that he could hold the man long enough to give the boy time to escape, but he'd sure as hell try.  
  
As if waking from a dream, the stranger blinked and stared down at the ax in his hands. "Damn," he sighed, and threw it as far away from his reach as he could get it. He looked back up at Peter and read the fear in his eyes despite the masked expression on his face. He held his hands up in surrender. "Look, I'm not gonna hurtcha. Just point me towards the nearest inn an' I'll be on my way."  
  
"Only inn near here's in town. That'a way," supplied Nathaniel from behind him with a helpful smile. Leave it to the boy to not see the danger. Peter's heart stopped dead when the stranger's dark eyes zeroed in on his child. Prepared to fight- barehanded if need be- he was surprised when the man smiled back. It soothed the lines on his face and made him look decades younger.  
  
"Thank you," he mock bowed to the boy with a wink. "You should tell your pa ta calm down some." Nathan giggled his agreement.  
  
Shame rose in the farmer's face with the exit of the adrenaline that had rushed through his system. He was probably just a soldier on his way home from the war. Peter had been the one to provoke *him* with an ax in the face. "I'd like ta make amends for ma behavior, if I can. I treated ya harshly when all ya wanted was directions. Ya'd never get a place at th' inn, not today. Ya must stay wi' us. It's not as fancy as th' inn but it's better'n col' ground."  
  
"Thanks fer the offer but all I really need are supplies. If there's no room at the inn I'll just get them an' get goin' -- What's that?" The man tilted his head like a dog.  
  
"I don't 'ear anythin'-" And then he did. In the distance, the slow moan of the Announcing Horn. Nathan bounced as he heard it too, wanting his father to leave with him immediately. The fair! He'd forgotten all about it! He looked at the stranger in awe. *He must 'ave th' ears of a wolf!* "Tha's to let us know that th' fair's startin'. S'why ya couldn't get a room in town. I was takin' the fam'ly ta see th' knights. Yer more'n happy to come along in th' wagon."  
  
The man seemed to weigh the idea heavily in his mind. He looked back at the eager shake of Nathan's head. A small, defeated smile crept onto his face. "All right. Should be fun, eh?"  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
The wagon ride seemed to take forever. The stranger felt ashamed as he watched the family around him. He'd almost attacked a man for the simple act of protecting what was his. Then the poor man had felt *guilty* about it, even offering him a place to stay for the night. It only reaffirmed his decision to leave as soon as possible. He'd just keep wandering until he found a place where there was no one he could endanger just by being nearby...  
  
The little hairs on the back of his neck tingled and his skin quivered from someone else's nearby body heat. Poised to attack, he looked up, only to see the farmer's daughter settle down in a corner of the wagon several feet away. *Could've sworn she felt closer than that. Man, get a hold o' yourself!*  
  
She watched him, her brown eyes peeking out through tawny bangs. She couldn't have been more than four and hid behind a beat-up rag doll. *These kids,* he thought, *so innocent. The only thing they worry about is make-believe monsters hidin' in the shadows. It's a shame that they hafta grow up and realize that the monsters are real, an' come in human shape.*   
  
Smiling shyly, she gave him a baby wave. Throwing off his mood with some difficulty he gave her one back. Delighted, she giggled and put the doll aside. "What's yer name?" she asked softly, her voice as heavily accented as her father's.  
  
"Logan. What's yours?"  
  
"I'm Emma an' 'er name's Clarice," she lifted her doll in introduction and then pointed to her brother, who was sitting across the wagon-bed from Logan and trying very hard to remain uninterested in the conversation. "He's Nathaniel an' he's gon' be eight soon."  
  
"Eight? Well, almost the man o' the house now aren't ya?"  
  
Nathan grinned and gave up the fight, turning his attention fully on Logan. "Are ya a soldier?"  
  
"Used ta be."  
  
"Were ya in th' war?"  
  
Logan shifted uncomfortably. "Fer a while."  
  
"D'ya kill anybody?"  
  
"Couple times."  
  
"D'ya get hurt?"  
  
"Couple times."  
  
"C'n I see th' scars?"  
  
"...No."  
  
"Is that yer sword?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"C'n I touch it?"  
  
*"No."* Logan suddenly became burningly aware of the boy's mother's attention from the front of the cart. Apparently satisfied with his answer, Alice turned back around and continued to chat with her husband.  
  
Movement drew his attention as the little girl suddenly arose from her seat and crawled shakily over to him. "C'n I sit wi' you? I'm gettin' bounced around a lot back here." Oh, God. Logan felt his pulse race as she locked herself against his arm, snuggling against his armor. His body went rigid, and his breathing became very quiet. He eventually calmed himself down enough to enjoy the ride. To his amazement, he even felt himself smoothing her hair with his hand, the girl chatting away about what she was going to do at the fair. He sighed as he realized that it had happened again; he'd let his guard down and the little girl had snuck in undetected. His inner being was appalled. *Oh how the mighty have fallen! Tough ol' Logan bonding with a kid. If the guys could only see me now...* He immediately banished the voice before it could dredge up memories of his fellow soldiers. If he never thought of them again it would be too soon... *What you need is a good distraction.*  
  
"Enough pesterin' th' man children," Peter said as he pulled the cart to a stop. "We're here."  
  
The two instantly shot out of the cart, pulling their parents toward the bright tents nearby. Music piped through the jugglers and dancers while dozens of tradesmen set up shop, calling out for passersby to sample their wares. Throngs of people wandered about, making Logan feel slightly claustrophobic as he followed the family.  
  
Alice held her youngest child's hand to keep her from wandering. "Well, I do b'lieve Emma an' I 'ill go watch th' dancers fer a bit. Would'ya like that, dear?"  
  
"Can we, mummy, can we?!"  
  
Peter laughed as his wife hurried after Emma, her arm almost torn form its socket from the little girl's excitement. "Catch up to ya later, luv!" he called to her back. "Well," he said to his boy, "now that th' women 'r gone let's us head over t' th' fights, eh boy?"  
  
"Yeah! C'n we watch 'em joust da?"  
  
"If we hurry. Care ta join us Sir Logan?"  
  
He grimaced at the title he didn't deserve. "Its just Logan, no 'Sir'... Fights, huh? Should be interestin'." This could be just what he was looking for...  
  
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	2. Unicorn II

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The clash of armor and the grunts of both horses and men sailed through the air, accentuated by the uproar of the crowds. The two combatants squared off again and spurned their hard-breathing mounts into action. Bright coverings flew and metal glinted silver in the clear air. When the two met, the rider on the left was flung from his saddle, grunting as he impacted with his fellow's lance and the ground. Applause rang out for the larger, grander knight still seated and primping for the crowd.   
  
Those sitting in the shaded observation stand applauded as well, although it was more polite than excited. From the moment the joust had started there had been little doubt which man would win.   
  
"Well," one of them said with a sigh, "he's done it again." He was a tall man, in his thirty-first year of life, with a dark blonde beard and hair to match. His clothing identified him as a noble, lord of the land surrounding his manor. "You know, you could at least *pretend* to be enjoying yourself."  
  
He spoke to a woman seated at his left shoulder. Her clothing placed the rank of nobility on her as well, and several well-worn sheets of parchment lay spread around her lap. Her face was completely covered by the one she was currently reading, shutting her out of the proceedings around her. Her voice was firm, yet humorous. "You're not enjoying yourself either, brother, and I have no intention of entertaining this brutality."  
  
The man made a sound of disgust. "This 'brutality' of yours is a time honored tradition in this country. The people love it and it gives them a moment to relax. Lord knows they need it."  
  
"I'm not denying that, Jonathan. I'm simply saying that you're trying to impress our guests far too hard." She gestured to the Bishop and his entourage sitting several feet away in the seat of honor.  
  
He smiled. "I'm not the only one trying to impress someone. You'd better watch this next part, your suitor is at it again."  
  
The victor below had turned his horse and had approached the booth. Helmet on the horn of his saddle, he bowed on his horse, making the poor creature do the same, all the while grinning cheekily at the Lady. Grimacing, she hid her face behind the papers once more. Satisfied, he replaced his helmet and went back to the joust. Apparently, Sir Orin intended to best all comers, accepting any manner of fight, desperate to make an impression. Only one more man was on the list, and once he was defeated Orin would be declared winner and awarded his prize.  
  
Through a counterfeit nod and an even falser smile, Jonathan leaned over to his sister to whisper quietly. "*That* was a little more than obvious. You can only hold him off a little bit longer you know. His fantasy 'code of chivalry' won't keep him from demanding that you marry him for forever."  
  
"I know that." Her voice and expression were angry, but he could hear the faint quiver of fear in her words. "The only reason he's pursuing me at all is that he knows that I am greater than he is and he's threatened by that power I have over him. If he marries me than *he* will be the powerful one. He's nothing but a controlling...*barbarian*."  
  
"And the fact that you're the most beautiful woman in the kingdom has nothing to do with it. Of course I *am* biased being your brother and all, and don't tell Alicia I said that." He smiled at the embarrassed blush of her cheeks. The humor left him as he continued however. "You cannot keep declining suitors forever Nichole. Is marriage so bad? Alicia and I are perfectly happy, why couldn't you be as well?  
  
"I know, Jonathan, I know." She looked into the distance, her voice turning somehow sad and hopeful at the same time. "But I can't marry Orin, or any other man. It's just not right, I know it. When I marry it will be to someone far greater than any around *here*. I know my true love is out there somewhere Jon, I can *feel* it. I know 'courtly love' is just a myth, but I *do*." She looked at her brother with glassy eyes. "Isn't that strange?"  
  
"Well, I hope your King Arthur arrives soon, or else you're going to have to settle for a knight in shining armor. And for Heaven's sake would you put that parchment away! You're making people nervous!"  
  
"A woman has every right to read in public."  
  
"Now *you* know that and *I* know that but not everyone's had as liberal a father as we had. Most *men* don't even know how to read, let alone women, so you can see my concern, here. Just please, put it-"  
  
Jonathan was interrupted by a voice, booming over the crowd, reaching even armored ears. *"Hey buckethead! You man enough ta take on a real soldier?"*  
  
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Sir Orin Gregory grinned under his helmet. He had just broken his lance on the last man on the list amidst a shower of curses, dust, and generous applause, scoring yet another point. Refusing the squire's question of whether or not to pursue the battle, the man stormed off the field. *Probably towards the nearest tavern,* Orin thought smugly. *Just as well. I can beat any man here, on the ground or in the saddle...and they know it, too.*  
  
As the victor, Orin could by right lay claim to the man's horse, weapons and armor, as was his right, but he refused, like he had all of his earlier winnings. He had no more need of those things, seeing as he already owned the best. The *real* prize was sitting in the stand above him, waiting to be won over. Lady Nichole could not deny him forever, and he was about to point that fact out to her rather publicly when the clamor of the audience was overridden by a growl at the far end of the field.  
  
*"Hey buckethead! You man enough ta take on a real soldier?"*  
  
Agitated, Orin stopped his horse in mid-canter to gaze upon the source of the noise. A *peasant* had somehow wandered onto the field and now stood challenging *him*! Orin's laugh echoed in his helmet and throughout the rest of his armor. "Soldier, eh? If you see one will you send him in my direction?"  
  
The crowd erupted with laughter but the fool never flinched, only insisted on staring at Orin in the most calculating way. A peasant pushed his way to the railing followed closely by a boy half his size. "Sir Logan- I mean Logan- oh, *please* jus' *listen* ta me!" he shouted. "Tis *suicide* man! Ya don't e'en 'ave a *horse* fer God's sake!"  
  
"Yes, *Sir* Logan. You cannot joust without a horse. *Jesting* however, now *there's* something you can sink your teeth into." Orin kept the scorn and humor in his voice for the sake of the audience. It very obviously worked as they roared with laughter at the small man again. Circling him slowly with his mount, Orin continued his perusal of the idiot. "What's this you're wearing?" He poked at the man's brown covering with what was left of his lance. "*Leather?* Oh, that's such a wonderfully ancient bit isn't it?" He leaned a little closer to murmur, "I could break you like a twig boy."  
  
With lightening speed, the man wrapped his arm around Orin's lance and pulled both rider and horse toward him. The destrier's whinny of fear rose with the gasps and outcries of the crowd.  
  
The man's snarling face mere inches from Orin's he growled "I would *love* ta see you try. *Boy.*" Then he let the lance go, leaving Orin to rearrange himself in his saddle.  
  
Indignation and rage boiling inside his chest, Orin suddenly became very aware of all of the eyes watching him, and one lovely green pair in particular. He raised his voice without removing his eyes from the where they were locked with the stranger's. "This ignorant fool has issued a challenge to joust. With the peoples' permission, I accept."  
  
Orin would have charged the man regardless of what the "people" thought, what with the burning hatred rising inside of him. But a knight's career could be made or broken by playing to the audience, both noble and common. Said peasants agreed forcefully to the duel and settled in to watch.  
  
As he maneuvered his horse into the starting position he herd a squire ask the man if he desired to borrow a horse, or even a suitable bit of armor, and that he was sure someone would loan it to him. Orin knew better though; no one would be willing to give up a potentially good horse or shield just to see a man make a fool of himself. He missed his response but when he turned around the idiot was still standing there, fully braced and ready for attack.  
  
He had drawn his sword, and it was like nothing the knight had ever seen before. The silvery metal was as wide as his palm was long and it was a good six feet long. The blade swept up from the hilt in three ridges, forming at the tip three rather sharp looking points. Orin laughed at the absurdity of it. *That thing's bigger than he is! The little fool can barely carry that monstrosity let alone wield it!*  
  
One final glance around showed Orin that the audience was still paying close attention. He was pleased to note that the good Lady Nichole had put down her papers and stared as intently as the rest of the flock. *Good.* He'd teach this ruffian a lesson on his betters and then he would make good on his promise to publicly woo her.  
  
The banner dropped and Orin spurned the Great Horse into action. He felt his face turn into a sneer against his will as he barreled toward the stranger. Amazingly, the man ran forward as well, growling all the way. Time seemed to slow for Orin, as it always did, and then sped up with a collision so loud it hurt.  
  
The horse bucked when the two finally met. Orin felt his lance strike something soft and yielding and then a flash of silver lightening blinded him. Logan had swung the huge sword in a wide arc and Orin gasped as he found himself being thrown hard onto the ground.  
  
The dust of the battle settled, and the utter silence of the crowd was deafening.  
  
"Get up."  
  
His breath heavy in his chest, Orin opened his eyes to find himself staring at blue sky. A red rage quickly overcame his shock when he slowly sat up. His stallion was whinnying and prancing about the yard, eyes rolling, half of his trapper and saddle lying in a heap on the ground around him. Tiny droplets of blood had fallen into the dry dirt from a small cut in the horse's side.  
  
*The... The bastard cut the saddle out from under me! Impossible!*  
  
"I said get up."  
  
Orin noticed him standing next to his bewildered form for the first time. Logan's long hair blew in the slight breeze, the wind sweeping it back from his face into two wolf-peeks above his ears. The monstrosity of a sword lay in his hands comfortably, out of the way but ready for immediate use if needed. Other than a fine sheen of sweat on his face, the man seemed as he had but seconds ago -- and was completely unmarked. A miniscule amount of blood covered his shoulder, but that could have come from the horse. There was absolutely no wound.  
  
*But- It cannot be! I hit him! I felt the lance go in!*  
  
"I'd hate ta kill you sitting down, *boy*."  
  
The knight snarled at the offense and clamored to his feet. Mysteries would be left for later, now his abused pride cried out for retribution. He'd be damned before he let this *peasant* get the best of him!  
  
"You are a very lucky fool," he spit out.  
  
"Luck had nothin' to do with it. Now shut yer yap an' put yer sword where yer mouth is!"   
  
Orin lunged at him, swinging his sword in the clever arc that his father had taught him and that his opponents never suspected. It would feign the man into leaving himself wide open and practically begging for a sword in the gut. If he had stopped for a moment to think past his anger he might have elongated the fight, enjoying the slow defeat of this *Logan*. But he wanted to see the stranger *gone*, and this move worked every time...  
  
...Except *this* time the stranger had easily evaded his trick, moving with the preternatural swiftness of a giant cat. His previously wide and crude sweeps merged into movements so fluid as to utterly disappear from one point of contact to the next. Orin had never seen anyone so fast or so *strong*. The blades sparked faintly as they met in a dance of movement and mortality.  
  
*What matter of devil-?*  
  
And then Orin was the one with a sword in his gut, or at least slipped between his armor. The dance stopped dead, and he looked up from his as yet unharmed stomach into the eyes of a master. They were hard, unyielding, and completely lethal. He would have no trouble sliding the blade into the knight's innards, and Orin was shocked to still be alive. The message in those horridly dark eyes was plain as day: *yield, or die.*  
  
With bile rising in his throat from the shame, Orin straightened and threw his sword down, admitting defeat to the creature. The eerie silence of the crowd erupted into bales of cheering and excitement, none louder than those of the farmer that had tried to convince Logan to back down.  
  
Shivers of rage ran down Orin's spine.  
  
The monster straightened as well, replacing the horrible sword in its scabbard on his back. He turned to the peasant in the stands. If possible, the mob cheered even louder. "Thanks for th' ride inta town Peter. I think I'll be riding back on my own though. Tell Emma I said goodbye." And he turned and walked toward the panicked stallion, soothing it with his voice alone. After a few pats to the large horse's quivering nose, he began to strip him of what was left of the trapper and saddle, investigating the cut he himself had administered.  
  
Orin's mind sputtered. *He's...He's taking my HORSE!*  
  
Oh, he could not- *would* not suffer this indignity. It was the beast's right as victor to seize what he wished, but he would not hold it for long. *No man born on this earth can move like that, nor heal so quickly. Whatever this THING be, I will not allow it to continue this outrage!*   
  
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	3. Unicorn III

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Nichole had gasped and grabbed the railing when the stranger- had that farmer called him Sir Logan?- was run over by Orin's horse and she had completely collapsed in her chair at the end of the footbattle. She had been positive that Orin would kill the man just to prove a stubborn point. She had even tried to get the guards and other knights to stop the joust but all refused, and she cried out when she saw the lance pierce his arm. Apparently none of the others had noticed, or had simply forgotten in the chaos that followed. But she *had* seen it happen, and she had also seen the man walk away without a scratch.  
  
His movements had memorized her total being. They were so liquid and clean, his entire body focused and smooth. He had the grace and brutality of a true warrior, and yet the man's face had turned into a snarl, and his voice was little more than a growl. She could see things in the distance very well, and could clearly read his eyes during the fight. They were depthless pits of rage unlike any she had ever seen. But when she looked past the wall of fury, she could see agony churning in their endless tide. What could possibly make a man hurt so very badly when he had so much to offer the world? A true enigma was this stranger, this Logan.  
  
*Logan,* her mind whispered, testing the flavor of it in her thoughts. *Logan...*  
  
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Ever since Logan was a child, he'd always had a way with animals. He often felt more comfortable around them than he did with people. The creatures of the forest apparently found him just as unthreatening, and didn't run away when he was near. He would spend hours just sitting in the woods, listening to the trees grow. *Domestic* animals were another story. Horses especially seemed to be frightened of him. In the army, he couldn't even go *near* them without causing a stampede. He hoped the case was different with *this* particular horse; he would need a good, strong mount in the journey ahead.  
  
"Easy boy, easy. I ain't gonna hurtcha..." The poor thing was going stir crazy, and Logan couldn't really blame him. *If I'd had a crazy man cut at my hide I'd feel pretty messed up too.* "Whoa, it's alright." He continued to speak gently to the big horse, slowly moving closer and emanating *"friendly"* as much as he could. When he was close enough, he slowly placed a hand on the stallion's nose, aware of the teeth lying in wait for him there. He stroked his muzzle, letting him get a good whiff of his scent. It was at this point that the army horses had spooked and he tensed, waiting for the inevitable reaction. Remarkably, the black charger didn't run, but moved in closer, whinnying at the attention and wanting more. *Well, I'll be damned.*  
  
Logan patted his head one more time and began to remove what was left of the heavy cloth and saddle from his back. He cursed softly at the sight of blood on the destrier's flank but was immensely relieved to see it was only from a tiny scratch. A little soap and water and he would be good as new.  
  
"I wonder what ol' buckethead called ya. Probably something ridiculous like 'Lancelot'. Do I even *need* ta call you anything?" he asked his new friend, who snorted in response. "Okay, you're right, everybody deserves a name. How 'bout Storm? Ya look enough like a thundercloud." Another snort. "Okay, not Storm. I'll admit, it's just as idiotic. Let's see... Yer a big fella, how 'bout Brutus?" He stamped his foot and shook his head in a definite *yes*. Logan laughed and said "All right. Brutus it is then!"  
  
The bizarre tingle on the back of his neck came again, and he turned to see a man walking up to him. Remarkably shorter than Logan himself, he was dressed in an overly ornate tunic, and smelled overwhelmingly of perfume and oil. When he spoke, his voice held the cultured snobbiness that only servants of someone 'better' than the one they were addressing could muster. They may not actually have the money and titles, but you can believe they *act* like they do. The man's words confirmed what Logan had already guessed.  
  
"My dear sir, Lord Jonathan Blackwood requests your presence in his manor home. Leave the horse, I will send for someone to bring it to the house stables."  
  
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The manor house rose out of the village like every imperial castle Logan had ever seen. The large brown walls emanated an aura of stability and safety, and the open clearing surrounding it was easy to defend from possible invaders. And yet unlike those massive stone effigies made for kings, this was a *home,* and signs of life could be seen hiding amidst the manicured lawn. Shade trees dotted the courtyard, and under each was a bench or tuft of grass perfect for contemplating on warm summer eves. Open windows jutted from the upper floor letting the late morning air inside. A little ways behind the house a large path led to the stables, where his new horse would apparently be waiting his return. The whole of it was beautiful in its earnest simplicity and lived-in grace. It was a place that Logan could see settling down in himself, if he were given half the chance.  
  
Of course, he wouldn't have employed help that insisted on rambling on etiquette the entire way there. Logan was sorely tempted to shun politeness and show the man the move he'd pulled on that knight, only minus the last minute hesitation.  
  
"When you meet the Bishop, you will address him as 'your holiness' and will bow. You will not be rude or vulgar in the presence of -"  
  
"Look, Reggie, I get it. I'm not gonna pick my nose and stick it on the drapes. I'll save that delicacy for the dining room tablecloth."  
  
"That's *Reginald*, not...*Reggie*." The man said the last word like it was full of boils and highly contagious. "And I do hope that you are merely attempting to be humorous--"  
  
Logan, feeling the onset of a headache from all the chatter, practically jumped from the carriage when it pulled to a stop in front of the doors to the manor, regardless of the tranquil beauty around him. He left the peacock fluttering indignantly behind him and strode forward, wanting to get this over with as quickly as possible. He knew exactly what to expect from this meeting, and had no taste for it. The soldier in him couldn't stand the pretentious nobility of this land. They always seemed to want something from him, and were unwilling to pay for it. He had no reason to expect this one to be any different.  
  
As he neared the doors, the most wonderful thing invaded his senses. It smelled like warm honey, and the musky scent of a female. Logan looked about himself for the source of the aroma and saw that one of the benches was occupied. The low branches of a tree cut off most of the figure from his view but he could make out the curve of a skirt blowing in the slight breeze. Inhaling deeply, he went in that direction instead, the thought that he should not be capable of *smelling* someone this far away never crossing his mind. He was so enthralled that he didn't even hear the peacock's stuttering protests.  
  
The woman was reading under the tree, her knitting laying forgotten off to the side, a fact that should have bothered him, but somehow didn't. Her flowing gown was tucked around her on the stone bench and her long hair fell in golden waves down her shoulders and back. She turned toward him with a gasp as he moved the branches to see her better. The scent hit him again, and Logan thought that he might swoon.  
  
She was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.   
  
Her full red mouth formed an 'o' of surprise and deep emerald eyes stared up at him under thick lashes. Her skin was the same pale cream color as the marble bench and her breath flittered out of her mouth, disturbing the few hairs that had fallen over her face.  
  
The two stared at each other for a long moment, neither breaking the silence for fear that the other would scamper away like some mystical forest creature. Finally, she breathed a sigh and spoke, and her voice matched her scent, smooth and luxurious. *"It's you."*  
  
"Pardon?"  
  
She jumped as if broken out of a trance. "Oh! I mean...um..."   
  
Her answer was cut short but the huff puffing of the manservant as he broke through the branches. "I am *dreadfully* sorry, my Lady, but this *ruffian* just barged away from me before I could warn you! He didn't hurt you did he? I shall call the guards immediat-"  
  
"No, Reginald, it's all right. He has done no harm." She looked back to him, her amazing eyes mesmerizing his very soul. "I am the Lady Nichole Blackwood. This is my brother's home. You are welcome here, Sir...?"  
  
He broke out of the trance. "It's Logan. Not 'Sir' anything. I don't have a title."  
  
"*Indeed*," mumbled Reginald. "His Lordship is waiting. Good day my Lady."  
  
"Good day Reginald." Logan was being turned physically away by the smaller manservant when he heard her say softly, "And good day to you, Logan. I hope to see you again."  
  
As he pushed through the heavy doors Logan could still smell her lingering scent. *Nichole,* he thought, letting the word blow through his mind like a warm breeze, soothing his troubled thoughts. *Nichole...*  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  



	4. Unicorn IV

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
* Again I stand against the Faceless Man *  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
By the time Logan had made his way through the maze of the manor the euphoria had utterly disappeared. The place wasn't *really* all that big or important and yet he was still forced to roam the halls for what seemed like an eternity, Reggie hot on his heels the entire way. The man *really* needed to stop talking.  
  
He was led through a pair of heavy wood doors and into a parlor where two men and a woman sat waiting. The one sitting next to the woman smelled a little like Nichole, and shared her hair color in the beard that covered his face. He smiled and rose to his feet when Logan entered the room. The sight of the second man present made the little hairs on the back of Logan's neck rise and a cold shiver to go down his spine. Still seated, the eldest man's crimson robes flowed from him like blood, the only flesh visible his pale hands and face. His eyes were calm and calculating and made Logan think of the battle tacticians he'd seen at the front, always judging how many men they could afford to lose. This man could only be the famed Bishop. It was impossible that they could have found him so soon, and so far away, just impossible...  
  
"Sir Logan?"  
  
He tore his eyes from the priest and shook the offered hand with as steady a grip as he could muster. "It's not 'Sir', like I told yer sister, I don't have a title."  
  
"My sister?"  
  
Reginald stepped forward. "Lady Nichole was reading in the courtyard again, my lord."  
  
"Oh, I see..." he looked at Logan for a long moment, then said eagerly, "Well, proper introductions are still called for, regardless of my friendly sibling. I am Jonathon Blackwood, owner of this manor, and this is my lovely wife Alicia." He put an arm around the woman, and Logan could tell why she hadn't stood up with her husband. She was gigantically pregnant; her stomach so large it looked like it would explode any minute. She smiled shyly at Jonathon's comment and nodded a tired greeting at Logan, obviously too stressed at the moment to manage civil conversation. Jonathon helped arrange her comfortably in the chair again, then turned to introduce the other man.  
  
Before he could speak the Bishop stood, towering over Logan at a full six feet tall. The holy man's cold eyes locked onto his, burning a hole into his mind. His voice was a whisper of the arctic gale making its way through Logan's blood as the man offered his hand. "I am Bishop Fehrsland, it is an honor to meet you." The tone of his voice changed ever so slightly. "That was a very interesting joust you gave earlier. I've never seen anything like it before."   
  
*Oh, God.* "Yeah, well, ya learn somethin' new everyday."  
  
"Yes... yes, you do."  
  
Jonathon continued as if he hadn't noticed the interplay between the two men. "Yes it most certainly was, even though Orin tried his best to make it otherwise."  
  
"He should have known better, and acted like the gentleman he claims he is," the Lady Alicia chimed in from the chair. "My husband told me all about it Logan, and I wish I could have seen it myself but the little princess-"  
  
"*Prince.*"   
  
"-decided *she'd* throw a fit this morning. And don't you start with that, Jon; it's a girl, women know these things."  
  
"A man can hope my darling," he said, trying to hide a grin. "Would you care for a drink Logan?"  
  
The Bishop blinked, and Logan could breath again. The man's eyes were the exact shade of battlefield mud - a deep brown with a bloody red tint. He forced himself to look away. "No, thank you, sire. I really just wanna know what this is all about."  
  
The two men sat back down, and Jonathon poured water for his wife from a nearby decanter, the ever-present smile still gracing his face. "I was very impressed today, as was everyone else present. I was wondering what you were doing in town, and why none of the other nobles hadn't snatched you up for their personal guard yet."  
  
"Just passing through. I needed to get some supplies and I got a little...distracted."  
  
"And Orin's horse is a good prize for a mere *distraction,* yes?"  
  
"Yeah, well, I'm gonna need a horse once winter rolls around."  
  
"You're traveling alone in *this* countryside without a horse? That's rather unusual, not to mention dangerous. Why didn't you already have one?"   
  
*Jonny's a quick one isn't he?* "My old one died on the rode a while back," he lied.  
  
"I see. Logan, I'm going to be frank with you, because I have a feeling that that's the only way I'll be able to say this properly..." His voice trailed off and he looked at his wife once more. She quirked an eyebrow encouragingly and he continued with renewed vigor. "I want you to stay here, at the manor house, for the duration of your stay, which I hope will be for a little while longer than you originally intended."  
  
Warning bells clamored in his mind and Logan's eyes jerked between the Bishop to Blackwood. "Why?"  
  
Jonathon leaned forward in his padded chair, leaning his elbows on his knees. "This land is in trouble, Mister Logan, as you undoubtedly know. War has been raging in France far longer than anyone cares to remember. Because of the blasted cold weather both this year and the last the farmers can't grow any crops and famine is spreading throughout the countryside." His voice grew hushed and he ran a hand through his hair. "And to make matters worse there are rumors of the plague in Ashton, and from there it's only a few days ride to here. The people are miserable, worrying that God has abandoned them...and the nobles are not far off. Marshall law was declared in Endurant just this past month. Unlike the others of my class, I choose to try and help as much as I can. That's why we were having a fair, to brighten their spirits, although many believe it was simply put on to honor the Bishop's presence here- beg pardon your Grace."  
  
"It's quite all right. Do go on, my son."  
  
"The real celebrations for his Grace's arrival will be held as soon as his secondary arrives from further South. We are going to have a masked ball here at the manor. You don't have to look at me like that, I know that seems rather dramatic but my wife and I are really nothing but old romantics at heart." He kissed Alicia's hand and she blushed a deep pink. "The *people* are what's important in this world, not a bunch of aristocratic fools who don't realize that their entire way of life depends on the very peasants they churn under their feet daily. It is *they* who will go off to war with the French if necessary and it is *they* that produce all of the food and labor that benefits *everyone.* It is wholly important that we-"  
  
"This is all very interesting," Logan cut in, sensing a sermon in the making, "but what does all of this have to do with *me*?  
  
Jonathon looked flustered for a moment, as if he thought it was obvious. "Why, the people need a hero Logan, and that hero is you."  
  
Logan felt his skin begin to burn. "What?"  
  
"It really makes perfect sense. The peasants need something to get their blood going, a champion. Someone that comes in and offers hope that their problems are merely a minor inconvenience. To offer them a glimpse of what it is they're working for. Like you did today at that joust. How the crowd reacted to you was remarkable--"  
  
Logan rose to his feet, a fine sheen of sweat dotting his forehead. "Oh, no. I'm no hero. And I'm sure as hell not gonna stay here and let you say I am!" He ran out, pushing the heavy wood door open as if it were made of paper.   
  
Jonathan rose to go after him, but was stopped when Alicia grabbed his arm. "Don't Jon. Not yet." She turned her head toward the door a moment, listening as Logan bullied his way through the house and out the front doors. "There's something wrong with him, Jonathon, can't you tell? He seemed so angry when you called him a hero and yet... Did either of you see his eyes? The man was terrified. He's running from something Jon, and I'm not sure if I want to know what."  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
The heat of the stables overwhelmed her as she lifted her skirt and entered the building. Bits of hay falling from above her caught in her hair and on the shoulders of her dress. The smell of animals and their food attacked her nose and made her nose itch. The little light that managed to penetrate the gloom barely illuminated the rumps or faces of various horses, and lamps were lit along the walls every so often. Men's voices mixed with the grunts and whinnies of their charges in a cacophony that made her ears ring. It was loud, dark and uncomfortable inside, and Nichole had never wanted to be anywhere else more than she did now.  
  
Nevertheless, she continued through the tight walkway between stalls, looking intently at each horse and man that she passed. She was about to give up hope when she spotted her quarry, standing next to the giant stallion that up to an hour and a half ago belonged to her erstwhile courtier. His back was to her as he fiddled with the new saddle, trying to get all of the straps into place. She watched intently as he shivered slightly and brushed his hand against the back of his neck then gathered her nerve and approached him.  
  
She had come rushing into the sitting room in hopes of finding Logan and was shocked to see her brother brooding in the corner over a glass of brandy, the visiting Bishop retired to his rooms, and her sister-in-law radiating unhappiness. She demanded to know what had happened, and immediately set off towards the stables, praying that she wasn't too late to stop him.   
  
And there he was, merely three feet in front of her. Her feelings from earlier were still a fresh imprint on her mind, making her feel a little dizzy. When he'd appeared out of the branches she almost fainted. It was the man from the joust, *Logan*, and her heart stopped at the sheer beauty in his face. He was not classically handsome, in any sense, but there was something there... His hair was dark and shiny, like a raven's, and lay against his head in a tussled mess, blowing freely in the slight wind of an open door. His features were rough, and caught somewhere between the smoothness of youth and the wrinkles of older men. And yet it was his eyes that drew her so, absorbing her every thought and emotion as if drinking them. They were a deep blue, and held within them a churning mass of raw emotion the likes of which she had never seen, rage and love twisted in the extreme.  
  
At last she had her answer to the question plaguing her since the tournament: this man was a walking contradiction in all of the meanings of the word, and he must carry that horrible burden throughout the rest of his days. The realization made her sick inside. It wasn't right that such a wonderful creature should be forced to suffer so!  
  
And it was while she was looking deep into those cobalt seas that she felt it. A connection, so bright and clear that it was almost painful. She felt wave after wave of sensation flowing between them, mixing and twining until it was impossible to tell the different strings apart. It was so intensely perfect that she nearly wept. And then she knew that *this* was the man she had been waiting for all along. *"It's you,"* she had whispered with relief.  
  
The connection broke and she was whisked back to reality with the sound of his voice, rough and soothing all at once. And then he was gone, and Nichole sat outside, shivering on the marble bench. It was *him,* he'd finally come. Her mind reveled over this marvel for a moment more, and then she gathered her things and raced inside to find him. She had let him leave to see her brother, but she'd be damned if she let him wander off just when she found him. Jon's idea made perfectly good sense, and if he wouldn't listen to *her* then...then she'd simply...steal his horse...or something.  
  
She squared her shoulders and opened her mouth to speak, preparing to prove just how determined she was-  
  
-and then she sneezed.  
  
Logan whirled around, right hand blurring to the hilt of his sword, and sighed when he realized who it was. *Nichole.* His heart stopped beating for a moment and he had to force himself to breathe. *C'mon Logan, stop actin' like a lovesick puppy an' play nice.* "Bless you."  
  
Color spread through her cheeks and she felt her confidence melt into a pool under her shoes. She smiled shyly, trying to keep her nose from running all over. "*sniff!* Thank you. All this hay doesn't agree with me. Maybe that's why I never come in here."  
  
"If you never come in here then why are you here now?"  
  
"*You*," she whispered before she could stop herself. Logan's brows arched minutely, and she almost ran away for fear that he wouldn't listen to her. She steeled her nerves and continued. "You ran out so fast they weren't sure if you were all right. What happened?"  
  
Logan turned back to his horse, not willing to have this conversation with *her*.   
  
Nichole was not to be put off so easily. "Why do you want to leave so badly? Would it really be that horrible staying here for a while?"   
  
He whirled around, and Nichole's heart nearly snapped in two at the hurt written in his eyes. "It's not that, believe me it's not. It's just..." He fumbled with words, not wanting her to run away, or to hate him like the others...  
  
"Why then? Do you not want the responsibility, are you worried that Jonothan won't hold to his deal and treat you fairly? ... Are you married?"  
  
He laughed, and it made him look very young. "No, I'm not married."  
  
*Thank god,* Nichole breathed in relief. "Then why Logan. Tell me what you are so afraid of."  
  
Logan's head snapped in her direction, his pulse pounding in his ears over the insult of fear. His burning gaze met her emerald one and for a moment time seemed to slow, and he knew that if she asked him again he would tell her everything, damnation or not. He should push her away now, while he still had a chance to leave without regret. "I'm not a hero, Nichole. I never was nor ever will be. I'm just a man trying to find a home for himself where he doesn't have to be what anyone tells him to be."  
  
"I think you're wrong Logan." She stepped closer, her eyes locking on his and her small hand coming to rest on his large paw. Her heady scent assaulted Logan and for the second time that day intoxicated him in its loveliness. He reached forward and pulled her closer and was entranced by the shape of her lips as she spoke. "I think you're wrong."  
  
A snort from Brutus interrupted her train of thought, and the sounds of the stable intruded on the couple again. Nichole realized how very near this man she was for the first time, and stepped away, cheeks burning. *Where did *that* come from?* she thought as she tried to catch her breath. She risked a glance at Logan and her heart fell. He wasn't fully facing her again, his eyes closed against her.  
  
"You don't have to do anything you don't want to," she continued quietly. "You never even have to leave the manor if you do not wish it. I'm sure the guards would love to have you exercise with them in the yard. It will do the people good to know that someone they can trust is here to protect them, even if it's just for a little while." *Too little a while* she thought.  
  
Logan sighed. "I wish I could stay but I-"  
  
"It would do *me* good as well, sir Logan."  
  
His words died in his mouth and he looked at her for the first time since she pulled away. When he had held her...it had felt so right to him that he forgot to be afraid for a moment. And now she was saying that she felt the same about him...  
  
*And how *do* you feel about her Logan? You can't possibly love her - ya just met her an hour ago-*  
  
*Shut up you. I don't know how I feel, other than completely confused.*  
  
Nichole stood silently with her confession, a dusty shaft of sun from a nearby window falling on her. Logan was reminded of some paintings he'd seen in a church, of angels floating down from Heaven to save the weary traveler. The stained glass had shone almost as bright as her eyes did in the light, until it had been smeared by arcs of drying blood--  
  
He took a deep breath, and pushed the images deep inside his mind where they belonged. It would only bring him pain to be near her, he knew, but he also knew that it was too late. His heart would never be the same if he left her now.   
  
"All right, I'll stay. But just for a little while." *And just because you asked me too.*  
  
Nichole grinned and blew a sigh of relief, and then suddenly looked about her, a bit of reality getting through as she finally noticed the stable hands looking far too uninterested in them to be anything but. What was she doing!? She barely knew this man and yet she was practically begging him to stay. She gathered the hem of her dress, and made a polite curtsey to him, backing out of the stable. "Well, I'll see you at dinner then...um, it's in an hour...you will be there won't you?"  
  
"I wouldn't miss it."  
  
She smiled and bumped into the stall holding Alicia's horse Triam. *Ouch! That will leave a mark in the morning!* Cursing her clumsiness, she limped forward, wondering how she could become so flustered over a simple *man*. Logan stared dumbly after her retreating back, wondering exactly what he'd gotten himself into.  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
*What are you doing here? Do ya have even the foggiest idea? This isn't like you, Logan, jumping straight inta something over a *girl*.*  
  
Logan stopped in front of the door to the dining hall, weighing his options. It was twenty minutes before dinner and the smell of food from the kitchens was so enticing that it was almost sinful, and he hadn't had a good, full meal in a long while. On the other hand, if he did show up to dinner, he would give the impression that he intended to stay, and that was something he could not afford to give.   
  
*Follow your instincts, or your stomach. See? The girl doesn't even have to factor into this decision.*   
  
And yet, despite what he tried to tell himself, he found his thoughts returning more and more to Nichole. The way her face would blossom into roses whenever she was flustered and embarrassed, the way she had stood up to him in the stables, the way she *smelled*. Her scent was all over the manor and grounds, leaving tantalizing glimpses of her wherever he went. *And that's another thing,* the voice of reason whispered in his head, *if you keep sniffin' around like some sorta hound they'll start to get suspicious. And we both know what happened the last time...*  
  
Logan was just about to turn around and head back to the stables when he heard a muffled voice through the door. *Nichole?* The voice fluttered away before he could clearly make it out. Noble women usually made a show of arriving late for everything, and if she was already inside waiting for him...Suspicious or not, he had to know.  
  
He leaned the side of his head against the thick wood and concentrated, willing his hearing to travel beyond the door. He remembered very clearly the first time something like this had happened. He had been eight, and his family hadn't believed him when he announced excitedly that his eldest brother was returning home from a long sea voyage. He had smelled salt on the wind that sunrise, and several hours later could hear the unmistakable thump of heavy boots and horses on the worn trail to their cabin. It was almost as if he was stepping outside of himself, then, letting his senses fly away from him to latch onto anything they came across.   
  
By noon the little group of sailors had arrived, delivering the news that Logan's brother had been lost at sea in a terrible storm. His family had never been the same again. Some nights Logan would catch his mother or father staring at him as if he were some being they had no knowledge of...some demon that might condemn them with the slightest word, the fire pooling with the fear in their eyes. He never mentioned anything like that to them again.  
  
The sensations had *changed* since then, happening more often and with varying degrees of accuracy. Of course, that was when it happened at all. *Work, damn you, work! You kick in when I don't need ya and when I do you vanish? Why won't you do what I say?*   
  
"Hear something, Logan?"  
  
He jumped, cracking his head on the side of the door. Swearing, he rubbed the sore spot and turned to the man behind him. "Nothin' that would interest *you*, yer Grace."   
  
A cool smile played across the Bishop's face. "Ah...but how would you know what interests me, Logan?" The smile disappeared, and the religious leader returned, condescending and humble all at once. "Will you be joining us for dinner? I was under the impression that you would be leaving as soon as was possible."  
  
"As a matter o' fact I was just going in." *You were? News to me.* "After you, Bishie."  
  
"It is the most peculiar thing, Logan," the Bishop said as opened the door. "But that bruise on your forehead has completely disappeared."  
  
The heavy oak slammed closed behind him, and the sound echoed through Logan's quivering body, magnified a thousand fold in his ears.  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  



	5. Unicorn V

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
*Now I saw a face on the water   
It looked humble but willing to fight   
I saw the will of a warrior   
His yoke is easy and His burden is light   
He looked me right in the eyes   
Direct and concise to remind me   
To always do what's right*  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
"Ah, Logan, glad to see you decided to stay! Dinner will be served momentarily."  
  
Nichole looked up at her brother's voice. *He came,* a warm voice cooed in her mind. But there was something wrong...He was paler, and looked as if he had just seen a ghost. He was still dressed in the armor he had worn earlier, though he had had plenty of time to change. He ran his hands nervously down the front of his chest plate, a gesture that seemed out of place on him. *Perhaps he is just unsure of how to act in noble company. A common soldier such as himself would hardly have gotten the opportunity to do so, especially during this ill-gotten war.*  
  
She rose from the table and offered him the seat next to her, much to the chagrin of the man opposite her, Sir Orin Gregory. He had already been invited as the winner of the joust, and decorum strictly stated not to go back on such things, so a conflict between the two was inevitable. The man was shooting daggers at Logan, anger practically *oozing* from him. "So, the monster returns, eh? You best be careful round this one Lord Blackwell, least he connives and steals something from *your* household as well."   
  
Nichole gasped, knowing full well that the last comment was about *her*, and that Orin saw her as having little more value than a lounge or a candlestick. Momentarily forgetting all of the manners her governess had taught her, she began devising a rather dirty retort only to be spared by a chuckle to her left.  
  
"Spoils of war, boy, spoils of war." Logan settled down into the velvet cushion, an aroma of sweat, horse, and leather staining the perfume-sweetened air. "Oh, by the by, Brutus sends his regards. He turned out to be quite a horse, once I took all that garbage off his saddle. Tell me - do you enjoy having your horse wear a skirt? 'Cuz all it's doin' is making it ten times easier for 'im to trip."   
  
Nichole suppressed a grin, and conversation around her slowed to a halt as the food was brought in. She sneeked a glance at Orin, noting the high color on his cheekbones, and the odd way he focused solely on his plate. Amazing. Logan had somehow managed to belittle the best soldier in town, and improve his own standing in the bargain. Who would have ever thought to insult his *horsemanship*?   
  
Dinner continued on, and when Jonathon, the Bishop, and a begrudging Orin began discussing politics, Nichole turned her attention to the man sitting next to her. "Sir Logan -"  
  
He set down his fork with a small clack. "Why do you keep calling me that? I told you that I don't have a title."  
  
"Well, you certainly must deserve one, being such a magnificent soldier, as well as a gentleman."  
  
He choked on his food for a moment before he was capable of an answer. "Gentleman? Hah! Oh, darlin' you certainly *have* lived a sheltered life if you consider *me* a gentleman."  
  
"Oh, but I do. You treat all men as if they are equals, and remain civil to them... as much as you can. You upheld dignity in combat, and spared Orin his life, instead of unjustly taking it." She smiled. "And despite your atrocious table manners, I'd say all of that, plus a few other minor attributes, are the qualities of a very fine person, and one I would not mind getting to know better."  
  
The grin slid off his face, and he looked down at his plate, moving a piece of lamb aimlessly with his fork. "You don't know me very well." A slight smile curved his lip. "And besides, I'm not all *that* good."  
  
Nichole played along, assuming a fluttery voice and the slightly winded expression of a dim-witted courtesan. "Oh I beg to differ sire, as I have seen many men paraded before me in hopes of marriage. All have strutted like roosters, fighting and biting at each other in the dust of the yards." She leaned forward slightly, so that her forehead was a mere breath from his, her eyes nearly cross-eyed as she looked at him. "And you, my dear sir, are undoubtedly the best at it."  
  
He was really grinning know, an eyebrow quirked in her direction. "What about Sir Buckethead over there?"  
  
"Merely a peacock to your hawk my lord."  
  
"Well, that puts me at ease, dear Lady. Tell me, how would a hawk go about courting a dove in this yard of yours?"  
  
"Why by being the best of course."  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
Their private conversation did not stay that way for long. Alicia couldn't *help* but to overhear some of it -- it wasn't right for a lady to eavesdrop and gossip after all, but what else was there to listen to? -- and couldn't be more pleased. Logan was relaxing, however marginally, and the question of him staying appeared to be a moot point. The Lady of the house was also pleased to note that for once Nichole had refrained from bringing any books or papers to the table. *This is a sign,* she thought, *and I intend to see what becomes of it.*  
  
To her left, another pair of eyes were taking an interest in the couple, these a furious shade of brown. Orin was madder than ever. How could Nichole do that?! She was being *flirtatious* with the fiend. Was she unaware of what sort of creature she parlayed with? Logan *was* trying to steal her away from him, and she was being made all the blinder to what sort of vile thing cowered behind those demon blue eyes. *Oh, he will pay for this...he will pay!*  
  
And, unbeknownst to all, someone else was listening in, carefully analyzing each word uttered between the two, all while feigning interest in what the foolishly naive Lord had to say. The color of *those* eyes had been compared to a bloody battlefield, and the mind that resided behind them would have agreed with the comparison.  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
The meal was turning out to be the best Logan had ever eaten, and not just because of the food. Nichole was a treasure, and a wonderful dinner companion. It was as if they were alone at the table, and the world ended beyond the fine china and the deep tablecloth. Which he did *not* stick any undesirable contaminants on, regardless of what he told Reggie. His table manners weren't *that* bad.  
  
Despite the almost euphoric feeling, Logan was growing tired of being stared at by the little knight across from him. Not to mention the fact that the presence of a Bishop in such close quarters was making him rather nervous. He was about to suggest that he and Nichole take a walk in the gardens and away from prying eyes when the doors flung open, and two men entered the dining hall.  
  
The smell that assaulted Logan was unlike anything he had ever experienced before. It was horrid, a putrid mixture of scents beyond his ability to describe, yet resounded with an overwhelming implication: *abandon all hope, for within lies death and decay.* It filled his senses to the brim, and overflowed, carrying the churning mass of revulsion throughout his entire body.  
  
"Logan? Logan, are you all right?" A familiar voice intruded into his thoughts, and he slowly became aware that he was standing, his chair toppled to the floor, fist clenched so tightly that blood was pooling in his hands from the tiny crescents his fingernails left behind. His breath came in ragged jerks, and his dinner companions were all staying at him.   
  
The newcomer was standing in the doorway with Reginald, looking lost and startled at the violent display upon his entrance. He was of an average height, and was dressed in the robes of the church, enough by itself to start Logan's heart to jumping. The smell hung like a shroud around him, but was drastically decreased in strength. The longer Logan was in the man's presence, the less powerful the stench, until it was gone, and he was left wondering if the scent had been there at all, or if his senses were playing tricks on him again. Logan was soon able to take in a breath not tainted by it, and his body began shaking in reaction.  
  
*God...* he thought, *what *was* that?*  
  
"Who are you?" he whispered, his voice a harsh gasp.  
  
"Logan, this is the Bishop's secondary, Father Desmond," said a stupefied Jonathon. "I told you we were waiting for his arrival."  
  
"Logan," a quiet voice whispered to his right. He felt a hand rest on his arm, and turned to see Nichole standing at his side. "Are you all right?"  
  
"Yeah, just...I suppose I had some bad lamb or something." His attempt at humor was pathetic, and he knew it. Regardless, it was enough to cut the tension in the room, and the aide relaxed, walking over to his master to offer a report of his travels. Jonathon and Alicia returned to their meal, though it was clear they were still concerned. Nichole stared at him for a long while, her hand still resting on his. She saw past his attempt to deflect her scrutiny, and could still clearly see the remnants of terror in his eyes.  
  
Her grip tightened slightly but her voice remained steady, and carried to the others in the room. "Sir Logan, would you care to escort me through the gardens? I'm in need of some air."   
  
Logan smiled at her excuse. He knew that once they were outside she'd drill him for answers about his reaction...as well as give him time to calm down himself. A small smile curved his lips, silently thanking her for her consideration. "I'd like that very much, my Lady. In fact, I was going to ask you that myself."  
  
The two exited the dining hall, Nichole's hand now held rather than holding, the stares of all in the room following them on their way.  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
(To Be Continued...if you want it to be. Feedback is your friend!)  



	6. Unicorn VI

DISCLAIMER & AUTHOR'S NOTE: At last, the title is explained! (Sort of, anyway. Don't worry, there's more coming) You know who's mine and who's Marvel's...or *do* you? BWA-HAHA! ahem Anyhoo, I saw both "A Knight's Tale" and "Shakespeare in Love" for the first time on the same day, so blame this on them. (If you read with music playing, might I suggest "Nights in White Satin" by the Moody Blues? It goes great with this chapter.)   
  
Unicorn: Part VI  
by Misty (Neblina2000@aol.com)  
  
While they had eaten, night had fallen on the manor house. The sky was layers of dark silk, flowing from a pale purple at the horizon to the deepest black high in the clouds. A cool breeze rustled skirts and hair, bringing with it the smell of rain and flowers from the garden. Tiny pinpricks of light dotted the sky as the stars winked into being, one by one, as if shy of their simple, tranquil beauty. If he had been a poetic man, Logan would have compared them to diamonds nestled within the folds of a black velvet cloak whispering its way into infinity.  
  
But alas, he was not, and the only way he knew to describe the night was perfect. As was the feeling of walking arm in arm with Nichole. He felt a calm peace fall over him, and allowed himself to relax, letting the tension flow out of him on the breeze. Life, at this moment, this particular breath of time, was perfect, and nothing could alter it.  
  
"All right, Logan. You have delayed long enough. I want to know what happened in there. Why were you so frightened of that man?"  
  
Did he say nothing? *Dammit!*  
  
Logan stiffened. "I wasn't afraid of him."  
  
"Ah, I see."  
  
He dropped her arm and stepped away slightly, distancing himself from her. "It was nothing. Just forget it ever--"  
  
Nichole slowed to a stop and caught his arm, and he noticed how the moonlight cought in the highlights of her hair. Staring deep into his eyes she murmured, "I am sorry. I never should have suggested you were afraid." At his hard stare, she shrugged, but her voice remained steady and firm. "I understand what admitting to fear means to you, and men like you. You think it means weakness, and weakness cannot be tolerated if one is to survive. I don't see it that way, I'm afraid. I feel it is a trademark of humanity to have feelings, to be afraid or happy or sad... It makes us who we are. Know this, Logan: I vow that nothing you ever say to me will make me think less of you, no matter how horrible you may feel it is. Do you understand?"  
  
He wished he didn't. That little voice was in his head again. *She's lying. She doesn't know it, but she's lying. If she knew what you know, if she knew what you *are*--*  
  
Logan pushed the familiar paranoia back into his mind, where it belonged, and answered her first question, in order to avoid the second. The odd feelings that seeing the priest had evoked had long passed, and Logan was well aware of how strange he sounded -- and hated it. His voice was a bark of sound as he pushed the word between clenched jaws. "Death."  
  
Nichole blinked, obviously shocked and confused by his answer. "What?"  
  
"I have no other way to describe it to you, but the man smells like death. Old death...*Bad* death. I've seen it enough to recognize it, and it clung around him like a leech. It stank so much it was painful."  
  
Nichole looked away from him and began to walk again, her forehead creased with worry lines. Logan fell into step beside her and prayed to a god he wasn't sure would listen that she wouldn't dismiss his confession as mere fantasy.  
  
She looked up at him after a moment. "The Bishop said that Father Desmond was coming from the east, where there are rumors of plague. Perhaps he was administering to the ill there?"  
  
"Yeah...You're probably right. I was just overreacting." The open boils developed by victims of the plague smelled horribly, and it was very possible that a man just coming from tending them would carry the scent, especially on his unwashed clothing. Logan did his best to assure himself that that was all, he had only reacted to something he wasn't expecting -- or wanting -- to come into contact with.  
  
"I suppose... Strange how no one else noticed. In all the commotion I didn't sense a thing."   
  
They strolled for a moment more in silence, each thinking their own thoughts of priests and plagues. Logan was feeling distinctly uncomfortable, and decided to change the subject. "You know, I don't think I've ever met a woman like you."  
  
Nichole laughed. "Thank you, I shall take that as a compliment. Exactly how many women *have* you known Sir Logan? And noble ones, no less?"  
  
He knew sarcasm when he heard it and smiled. "No, not like that. I just mean that you're different. You never do what's expected of you, and I respect that. Like you damn near pouncing on Buckethead at dinner." She snorted rather inelegantly, yet again proving his point. "And you reading in the yard this afternoon. What were you reading anyway?"  
  
"That? Oh, it's a beastiary."  
  
"See! At first I had you pegged for the poetry and prose type. You're just breaking expectations all over aren't ya?" She blushed, a smile curling the edges of her mouth. "Now what could possibly interest a woman -- and a noble one, no less -- in a book full of animal tales?"  
  
She grinned at his gentle gibe, as he had intended her to. "My mind should not be limited by the sex that it is encased in, Sir Logan. My father taught me that, and every day I thank the Lord for his foresight in allowing his daughter to do and be as she wished, be it weaving as expected, or educated as it is most definitely not."  
  
"Your father sounds like a good man," Logan said, unable to stop the memories of his own father from rising to the surface. The last time they had spoken...had been less than affectionate. "You must have been heartbroken when he died."  
  
Nichole sighed. "Yes, I was. I was eleven, and felt as if the world had dropped from under me. To this day I wake from bad dreams and expect him to wrap his arms around me, telling me it will be all right...it seems as if I always have bad dreams now." She took a deep breath, banishing the memories and pain back to the depths of her mind, and focused on the man walking next to her. "But to answer your question: there is much a woman like me finds interesting in the animal world. I find it fascinating. Take the unicorn for example -- one cannot find a more interesting story then *that* animal's biography."  
  
"Unicorn?"   
  
"Surely you've heard of it?" He told her that he vaguely associated the word with a goat-like thing he saw on a lord's banner once, and didn't think it warranted *any* interest at all. It was rather ugly now that he thought of it. She smothered a laugh with the back of her palm and went on. "It must have been a bad weaving. In most stories, a unicorn is the most beautiful animal in all the world, exhibiting a grace like unto an angel, with a pearly white mane and coat and a horn of golden bone protruding from its forehead. Normally they are elusive, and have a love of solitude, never straying from their forest home. The legend goes that the animals gathered at sunset to drink from the Great Water only to find it fouled undrinkable by the venom of a serpent. The unicorn arrives and dips his horn in the water, and instantly it is pure and cleansed. It is well known that the horn of such a beast contains magic, and has the power to cure sickness and poison in any who possess one."  
  
"Sounds like a pretty useful animal. Why hasn't anyone ever caught one?"  
  
"That's what makes it so interesting. The horn isn't used strictly for making ponds drinkable. The beast is extremely aggressive, and is too fleet and fierce to be captured. The only way to lure it out of it's forest is to use bait -- a young virgin, can you believe it? This ferocious creature will meekly surrender itself to her innocence, entranced and helpless before it. And then, when the unicorn's head is lying in her lap as though a loyal dog, the woman breaks the horn in half, and the hunters come to kill it with a spear through the breast. The horn and hide are sold to the rich, and the woman, virtue proven in the capture of the beast, is married to the highest bidder...It's very sad really, such a beautifully dangerous animal trapped by innocence..."  
  
Logan, who had been absorbed in the distant look in Nichole's eyes as she spoke of the unicorn, understood entirely how the animal felt. "I never knew that."  
  
She smiled. "Well, now you do. Where did you come from Sir Logan, that you have never heard tell of unicorns?"  
  
He sighed and looked about him at the garden. "Far away from here, my Lady. This is all new to me."  
  
Nichole shook her head in bewilderment, smile firmly in place. "I have never met anyone like you before, either. I look at you and I wonder: who is this man, that would dare challenge a knight, then let him live only to take his *horse*? His manner and appearance is course and unrefined, yet he holds his own in dignified company, and has proven to be a most splendid person to stroll through a garden with." She giggled when he couldn't stop the blush from rising in his cheeks, then grew serious. "But there is a sadness within you, Logan. A deep, fathomable sadness. And fear as well. Forgive me but I am not afraid to say it, though I believe *you* are... And in a man whose honor and strength are easy to see, that hidden turmoil is frightening."  
  
They had stopped walking, and stood a mere handsbreadth from each other. Logan's mouth betrayed him and opened to tell her everything; the war, the pain, the church, *everything*. "Nichole, I --"  
  
Her hand covered his lips. "No. Don't say something that you will damn yourself for later. I told you I would listen and understand you, Logan, I did not say that you must go against your instincts. What you feel must be kept secret *will* be, until you decide when to tell me, and are not compelled to in a garden under the stars..."   
  
Her concerned ranting wore down to a pause, and his hand came up to cover her own, his thumb stroking a slow circle on her fingers. He pulled it away from his skin far enough to place a warm kiss on her knuckles, the flutter of his breath across her arm making her shiver. She closed her eyes as he bent his head toward hers. She could feel his hot breath on her face --  
  
"Nichole? Are you out here? Nichole?" Alicia's voice tore through the pair like a knife through butter, and each took a staggering step backward. Logan cleared his throat and ran an unsteady hand through his hair while Nichole began to furiously fan herself. In a thready voice she called out to her brother's wife.  
  
Alicia swayed into their midst, huge belly swaying gently as she walked. Jon couldn't keep her abed forever, and she had used the excuse of a stroll to stretch her legs to get away from him. She followed a hunch and was glad to see her suspicions had been correct: here stood Logan and her sister, flushed, blushed and unwanting company. *My, my,* she thought with a smile, *what have I interrupted, I wonder?* She smiled and greeted them happily. After a grunted "h'lo" from Logan, she turned to Nichole and suggested that the two of them depart inside, as the weather was turning chilly and it was getting very late in the night.  
  
Nichole turned to Logan, a blush firm on her cheeks and a slight glint in her eye. She curtsied and smiled demurely, as if sharing a private joke. "I am afraid it *has* gotten a little late, and 'women like me' must get our rest. Goodnight Sir Logan. Perhaps we may meet at breakfast, and continue our discussion then?"  
  
Logan grinned wolfishly and performed a surprisingly gracious bow. "I would like that very much my Lady."  
  
  
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I've just given you readers a lot of healthy foreshadowing. Can you guess where? evil grin To be continued, if I'm not wasting my time...coughfeedback!cough cough  
  



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